Harry Potter and the Forks Massacre
by Von
Summary: Edward couldn't resist his Singer. His family has to move. Lying low in a pollution-drenched, rainy suburb, they meet a boy whose clock is ticking down.
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter crossovers are a disease and authors who engage in them need help. Now.

Please.

Thanks to **GlenPoint **for catching a massive continuity error. I found another one just before this was due to be posted and so Harry is a bit younger than he used to be.

Twilight has been dragged into line with the HP timeline - not that it matters much, beyond any technology they own now being from the 90s.

A minor, but important, shift is the date of Isabella Swan's arrival in Forks. In canon it was the 17th of January. For this story it was the 29th of June.

Canon time restrictions are in play, making this story both shorter than expected and a little cramped. Ideally, what unfolds would do so over several months - not several weeks. This has in turn shaped the story itself, which actually turned out to be to my liking - I hope it is to yours as well. Fans of romance? You're not gonna see much here. In fact, I'd venture to say non-shippers could safely read it.

Someone took the time to point out that my serial issue with loose and lose had cropped up again. :D Thank you mysterious guest reviewer! That typo and 'solider' will dog me to my grave. I didn't find any 'loosed' though.

**Massacre**

**July 3rd**

Dishes clacked gently against each other as Harry moved one plate into the rinsing tub with slow movements, heedless of the scalding hot water.

He was listening to the news playing in the background, one of many attempts to keep his mind off the absolute balls-up that was his Fifth Year.

The Dursleys never let the news play past half-seven, when their favourite soap started. Try as he might, Harry simply couldn't lose himself in _that_ drivel.

"_And now, an update on the Forks situation. Earlier this week we reported that there had been a shooting at an American school in the state of Washington. Believed at the time to be a student killer similar to the Columbine situation, we now have information that paints an even more terrifying conclusion. Chris Redford is at the scene. Chris?"_

The next few words were overridden by Vernon's loud opinion that the 'Yankee brats probably deserved it'.

"_-some people now are saying that they heard screams during the day, but that the screams were short and singular affairs – nothing indicating mass terror, or indeed anything beyond teenagers being naturally noisy."_

"_Are you telling me that people heard __**screams**__ and __**nobody**__ called the police or thought it strange?" _The anchorwoman repeated leadingly.

"_That's right, Jane. There was no investigation. It wasn't until the end of the day when some local parents came to collect their children that the scene of.. of carnage.. was discovered."_

"_Now, we do have some images to display of the school, I believe.. Yes. Channel 4 wishes to advise its viewers that the images about to be displayed are disturbing and that all children or people likely to be offended should please leave the room now._

...Alright, they are going on screen now..."

Harry finished cleaning the dishes and dipped his hands into the hot rinsing water to lift the plates out onto the dish rack.

He tried not to wonder if Death Eaters were targeting Muggles outside Europe now.

"_Truly some horrific images. You can see blood all over the floor and even on the walls... bodies everywhere, many with their throats slashed open.. their faces have been blurred due to the majority of them being minors, of course. Chris, what's the update on finding whoever committed this atrocity?"_

"Well, Jane, the current forensic information is that there were no signs of gunfire at _**all**__.. uh, it seems that most students died via knife wounds to the throat – the forensics are specifying that the blades were very fine and sharp and the similarity of the wounds is suspect – that is to say, it suggests this wasn't a crime of rage or impulse. Uh, based on the number of victims and lack of noise, it's speculated that a whole team of people were involved in this massacre, a brutally efficient task force of killers. There have been rumours that the killings were cult-related, but, uh, we don't know much more at this time."_

"Were there any survivors?"

"No, uh, only seven students and one member of staff were absent that day. All other staff and students perished."

"Hmm.. truly a terrible thing. Thank you, Chris. Please keep us updated."

"Thank you, Jane, I will."

"Hmm. Our hearts here at Channel 4 go out to the grieving family members of all those young victims."

"Coming up after the break, accusations of infidelity in the conservative party, we name names and-"

The television clicked as Petunia switched over to EastEnders.

Harry stared at the dishes on the rack and left them for Petunia.

Death couldn't be escaped, even in the Muggle world.

_Massacre_

**July 4th**

_'Once it is recognised that taste is dependent not on the item we place in our mouths, but how our taste buds perceive that item, we can-'_

Loud trucks interrupted his train of thought. Glancing out the window, Harry watched as two large moving vans slowly navigated Privet drive, steering cautiously around the parked cars. Behind the moving vans, two dark-tinted rental cars followed closely. The small caravan passed his window and he could hear them slowing down as they reached the end of the cul-de-sac. When the engines switched off he returned his attention to his potions essay.

_'-we can adjust potions to appeal to our taste buds, regardless of the potion's original physical and chemical makeup.'_

He hesitated over using the 'Muggle terms' that Snape mocked whenever Hermione dared to use them, but frankly it wasn't until he started thinking of potions as chemistry that it made any sense to him.

Potions just seemed to be so very, very old-fashioned, with arbitrary associations of compatible and non-compatible materials. All of his current potion books were full of the results of experimentation with the logic behind them often being childishly simple - like moonstones holding lunar properties and thus used in wolfsbane potion even though it essentially was just a rock that _looked_ moon-like. It could easily be called pearl-stone or something and be utterly disregarded as an option.

There had been more than a few Muggleborns who had attempted to use Muggle science to understand and create new potions but who were scorned or worse for their beliefs. Only a handful of their greatest discoveries were acknowledged at all, and were often stolen by their colleagues – or so Hermione had ranted to him in a letter.

Harry had received that letter on the third day of the holidays, along with a few books bearing her name on the inside cover page, via Muggle post. The letter had opened with Hermione's plans for her summer assignments and closed with the warning that owl post had been forbidden for use for 'security reasons'. Hermione had sent Ron a letter explaining to him how to use the Muggle post, but wasn't really holding out hope for the redhead.

The letter also contained a stark warning against abuse of the books she was lending him, including the precise hexes she'd use on the train come September should there be any damage. Paradoxically, the warning made him feel good. It felt like a promise, a 'I might not be there, but I'm thinking of you.'

The books themselves were mostly on practical topics, the girl knowing that Harry had absolutely no interest in the theory of magic nor how arithmancy was built into the world. Thusly, she'd sent books titled: _'Brewing up Trouble: Potions for Pranks', '10 minutes or less! Potions for the busy wizard!'. _(Handily, none of them needed any form of 'silly wand-waving'.) Harry set them on his dusty bookshelf, next to _'Sleight-of-hand and other wandless magiks' _and _'A complete magical atlas'._

Right now he was sitting at his desk, trying to work out how his potions essay could contain the most heretic information possible. He didn't expect to have the grades to get into Potions next year, but even if he did... just the thought of it made him shake with anger.

He couldn't imagine a year sitting before the sneering, gloating, smug sonofabitch Severus Snape. He wouldn't even do the essay at all, except if he didn't, Snape would have a golden invitation to drop him in detention for even more one-on-one smugness. Snape couldn't, however, punish him for a properly-thought-out and researched essay

_'This essay will draw from magical and Muggle research to demonstrate how inferior all current potion experimentation methods are and the inefficiency of so-called 'Potion Masters'_

"POTTER!"

He glared at the door of his room but knew better than to yell back. Sighing, he threw his pen down and went to see what his Aunt wanted. 

_Massacre_

**July 5th**

The next day, Privet drive was abuzz with news of the new family that had moved in at number 11. Harry scrubbed the front steps and tried to ignore Mrs Next Door gossipping with a very giggly Aunt Petunia about the 'magnificent specimen of a man' _Doctor_ Cullen and his 'pretty in a plain sort of way, don't you know' wife.

Obviously, this meant the lady in question was pretty enough to inspire a certain level of jealousy amongst the housewives of Privet drive.

The conversation turned towards Mrs Cullen's extensive renovation of her new home, using her 'delightfully dutiful' children to do the work in both her home and garden. As number 11 was right at the end of the cul-de-sac and had a bit of a bigger garden than normal, the whole street was interested in watching it change.

Harry rather thought that if they had any sense at all, they'd be installing one-way windows and tall fences.

Unfortunately, the Cullen's exciting new changes meant a storm of me-too-ing from all the other residents. Mrs Next Door was planning to import a Japanese cherry tree to squeeze into her front yard and Mrs Across The Road was apparently hiring a gardener to build some sort of fancy fountain involving wind chimes and tiers.

This, his Aunt and Mrs Next Door agreed, was clearly missing the point and thus didn't count.

Aunt Petunia declined to say what she had planned but Harry knew whatever it was would be _his_ responsibility. He was the one, after all, who had tended to her award-winning flowerbeds his whole life. He was the one who paved the front path, who mowed the lawn, who painted the fence and pruned and shaped the hedges. He had no doubt that _he_ would be the one shouldering any actual labour this time as well. 

He got up to hose off the steps – no water ban this summer. Like an omen of the dark days to come, the season was muggy, misty and frequently rainy.

He finished up and headed inside to his essay just as Petunia skillfully investigated the current 'welcome to the neighbourhood's' attempts of her social competitors. She liked to see which foods had seen success before she made her own attempt - she also believed the delay showed her to be a welcoming neighbour and not a desperate gossipmonger.

Just as he was working on a particularly snide paragraph comparing metric measurements to non-specific measurements such as 'a pinch', he was called down again to help bake chocolate and orange poppyseed cakes. Once they were out of the oven he was sent back upstairs whilst the Dursleys waddled out of the house to go make like nice normal neighbours.

In the mood for a change and a little restless, he settled on the stairs with his book on wandless not-really-magic. When the Dursleys returned less than half an hour later he didn't stick around to hear them break it down. Hoping for the best (that is, to not be bothered for the rest of the night), he went to bed.

He dreamt about falling and eyes that no longer twinkled with patience and secrets. He dreamt about evil under his skin and woke up with bright pink lines all down his arms and belly.

With pre-dawn touching the edges of the smoggy sky he opened his borrowed magical atlas and tried to lose himself in a daydream of a future beyond the war.

Of a life beyond the next year. 

_Massacre_

**July 6th**

It was misting lightly as Emmett turned on to Privet drive. He had been taking a walk to get away from the maddeningly close quarters at home. After years of living in a spacious house with the freedom to leap into the trees and go running or hunting or just get some privacy, moving to the stifling suburb of Surrey was testing all of their patience.

Even Rosalie was something to avoid at the moment. She alone of the five of them had resisted the lure of blood when Edward lost control. At the first whiff of human blood Jasper had rapidly lost the plot and when the two of them splashed blood everywhere Alice and Emmett had wavered from trying to stop them to competing with them for the long-desired food.

Rosalie had fought off her own desires with a combination of rage at their actions and sheer bloody-mindedness. She'd been vicious in her treatment of them since, smashing Emmett's game system to fragments, kicking Edward's piano into splinters and laying all possible consequences of their actions on them without pause.

Carlisle had had to work hard to calm her enough to get their most valuable items packed and all of them on the next plane out. There had been no witnesses left alive to their actions, but none of them wanted to risk the Volturi using it as an excuse to bring them in and so they'd fled.

None of their known houses had been an option and trackers could find them anywhere if they'd stayed on the same continent... so they'd picked a random part of a heavily-populated area known for gloomy weather and moved right in

Jasper wasn't allowed to leave the house. Edward was punishing himself in a way only the King of Emos could manage and didn't have to be confined at all.

Alice and he were allowed to go out but they were being 'home schooled' until at least the next year. The official story was something about culture shock, but really it was because none of them knew if they'd still be here by then. The Volturi might find them, Jasper might lose it so close to people - hell any of them might find a Singer here! He himself had a lousy record for Singers. It was one of the reasons he couldn't find it in himself to fault Edward for his actions.

Besides, Edward was faulting himself enough as it was.

Alice wasn't much better. She hadn't stopped beating herself up over the whole thing, fairly or not. She hadn't _seen_ it, not even a glimpse, and that shook her to the core.

And Jasper? That poor guy sealed up his window on the first day and never budged from his room 'just in case'. They were buying cold blood from some butcher contact of Carlisle's and every day one of them shoved some through his door. (And he meant _through_. Rosalie couldn't be bothered to knock and leave it outside, thus the door now had a can-shaped hole punched through it at floor level.)

Rosalie was giving them _all_ the silent, angry contemptuous treatment, going out alone for some serious shopping therapy. Frankly, he pitied the staff of whatever store she went in to. No matter_ how_ much she spent, _nothing_ was worth Rosalie in a rage.

A scuffling noise to his right drew automatic attention. In miserable weather like this, most humans were inside with closed drapes and lights on to give the illusion of comfort. Those who had to be outside were wearing raincoats like his and hurrying with heads bent.

Some weirdo on his street was _gardening_.

Too bored to pass it up, he crossed the street and wandered over to have a look.

A skinny kid with pitch black hair was diligently going at the lawn with a shovel, punching through the tough clay-like soil and shifting it into a waiting wheelbarrow. A pile to the side was covered by a tarp but clearly indicated a stack of equipment.

Emmett leant against the fence and watched curiously.

The kid kept working, showing no sign of awareness save a tightening of muscles across his arms and shoulders. Amused, Emmett kept watching, waiting to see when he'd snap.

Impressively, the skinny brat continued to ignore him for almost twenty minutes before turning unexpectedly green eyes to him and glaring.

Emmett grinned.

"Whatcha doin?" He enquired, playing up the drawl.

Hey, entertainment was hard to find in this place! Especially after Rosalie crushed his new PS2 underfoot with a steely look in her eye.

"Paying for _your_ sins." The boy snapped back unexpectedly and Emmett felt himself freeze for a second, reminded sharply of all the children he'd killed recently. He almost stood up and left right then and there, struck by the sudden notion of killing _this_ child too. With human blood fresh in his belly, the urge was harder to ignore.

He tried to remind himself that a little stick-thin kid like Blackie there wouldn't provide much of a snack - or fight. Unfortunately, all that conjured was the increased awareness of how _easily_ that thin little body could be held close, drunk dry and dropped into a muddy grave pre-dug right here in front of him...

In the end, it wasn't the thought of his family's safety or even Rosalie's rage that stayed his hand. It was his own sense of self-disgust at loosing control again – and without even the prompt of fresh blood to scent.

...Maybe he needed to start drinking more (yuck) of that cold blood shit.

He cleared his throat and tried to ignore how there'd been a very awkward pause in the conversation - and how the kid was now staring at him with a mixture of nervousness and... aggression, oddly enough.

"How so?" He asked in an attempt at casual, shifting his gaze from the tempting 10-second snack in front of him to the varying damage done to the front yard.

Slowly, the kid got back to work.

"Your Mum is having her garden re-done, yes?" He asked around shovel strikes. "Therefore everyone else on the street must do the same or better or risk loosing their social status."

The kid gave a particularly vicious chop to a large root that had crept in from next door.

"But... why are you doing this shit in the _rain_?" Emmett asked, slowly grinning in shameless amusement.

The kid tossed long hair heavy with moisture out of his eyes and glared – again.

"Because _obviously_, I have nothing _better_ to do with my life." He ground sarcastically. "_Obviously_ I'm immune to silly things like colds and pneumonia. _Obviously_ homework isn't as important as getting one up on the neighbours and _obviously_ working through the rain is the best way of showing them up!"

At the end of his little rant, the teenager threw down the shovel in disgust, glanced reflexively at the front window of the house, then stepped squishily over to the tarp and rummaged underneath for a thin sandwich. He didn't seem to care that the light rain was soaking into it as he ate slowly.

Again, Emmett just watched with a smile. This was the most entertainment he'd probably get before they got cable installed.

"Well seeing as it's _obviously_ our fault.." He mocked lightly. "Want a hand?"

"No!" The boy snapped, fingers tightening on the sandwich so much it almost tore in half.

"Thank you." He added a second later, calming down a little.

"We've only got one shovel anyway." He added as weak justification.

Emmett didn't push. Sometimes he forgot how nervous humans got around him, even when he wasn't actively trying to scare or hunt them.

Sometimes, survival instincts just _wouldn't_ be ignored.

"Alright, well.. I'd better get back, I guess." He said reluctantly, visions of blonde hair already haunting him.

He started to turn away before turning back sharply and holding out his hand - in this weather, a little cold skin was totally normal.

"I'm Emmett, by the way."

Suspicious green eyes flickered up to study both his hand and his face and Emmett was struck again with the notion that the kid - for some reason – was more suspicious than nervous.

He was just starting to quietly freak out about whether the kid could possibly know they'd moved in from Forks when a slender, calloused hand was placed in his.

"Harry." The kid said quietly, shaking his hand once before letting go. He didn't say anything about cold, hard skin and Emmett tried not to think about the pulse fluttering under thin, soft skin.

"See ya later, then, Harry!" He managed, tossing a wave over his shoulder as he headed back home.

Maybe he oughtta just stay inside after all.

_That's all for now_


	2. Chapter 2

Whoops. The last (proper) chapter has been re-uploaded, there may be some changes.

Keeping to a date system is both challenging and really helpful!

**Massacre **

**July 8th**

__

There was something strange about the Cullens.

Harry watched in frank bemusement as his serially-nosy Aunt shuffled through a small box full of 'little things' she wanted to give to the Cullens to 'further encourage' their 'lovely first meeting'.

Except.. _she_ wasn't going. In fact, the very idea seemed to make her nervous!

First she'd asked Vernon, but his large uncle had muttered something about work piling up and large orders and almost run out the door to go to the office.

On a Saturday.

Dudley was off practising throwing his weight around and so Petunia had turned to her despised nephew with a pinched look and told him to stop moping, put some respectable clothes on and meet her in the living room.

Harry, not actually owning any respectable clothing, pulled out the _very_ worn pair of jeans that a deluded Aunt Marge had sent for Dudley years ago (too small in the waist for Dudley, but Harry had grown into them until now they were just slightly too short and looked baggy rather than ridiculous) and a one-size-fits-all Puddlemere United shirt that Oliver had sent to everybody he knew after making the team.

Being a Wizarding shirt, it obviously had a moving slogan but turning it inside out solved _that_ little problem. With no department store tag and very neat stitching, he could probably get away with it looking like the current fashion.

Or, failing that, chronic laziness.

His Aunt hadn't looked happy but was also clearly aware (at least on some level) of the size differences between her son and her nephew and how little his attire could be helped.

Sometimes he wondered if she hated him because her son was a big fat pig who would die young and probably in prison – but her _sister's_ son was a skinny teenager with magic who could theoretically write his own ticket to do anything he wanted once he was old enough.

Hmm..

Nah. She wasn't _that_ aware.

Briskly she showed him a map of London, a couple of booklets on public transport (Aunt Petunia wasn't very computer literate), a thick wad of touristy pamphlets on botanical gardens and museums and so on and, of all things, a box of tea.

"Did you make this box up just in case you could one day suck up to foreign neighbours?" Harry asked rudely, the filter between his brain and his mouth absent as it often was these days.

He cringed slightly even before his aunt's swift smack stung the side of his head.

Petunia's nose flared.

"You'd best keep a civil tongue in your mouth, boy." She bit out. "If I hear one word of any disrespect or misbehaviour..."

She trailed off but Harry didn't need a picture drawn.

If she heard anything, it would mean everyone on their street knew. She'd lose her perceived advantage _and_ have the mocking disdain of her peers.

Harry would be in rather a lot of shit, to say the least. He wasn't worried about what his uncle would do to him, so much as what he - Harry - would do in response.

Everything felt so _raw_, lately. His anger was quick to stir and his wand was never very far from his hand. Even thinking about Sirius... even then, he felt more rage than grief.

So, picking up the box, he tried not to think at all. 

_Massacre_

Esme looked up from her aggravated study of their new computer's manual as she heard footsteps coming towards the house.

It was raining lightly and she could tell by the way the footsteps smashed through puddles like they held a grudge that it wasn't anyone from her family.

She consciously sighed, readying herself for another meet and greet with their nosy, if slightly amusing, neighbours.

Fortunately for all involved, Rosalie had dragged her husband away to go on a theatre spree – watching play after play as something was always on around the clock in London. It was safe enough since they could simply not breathe - and couldn't be seen to be not breathing - and thus be safe from any more Singers.

Nobody was sure whether the marathon trips were for Rosalie's enjoyment or Emmett's continued punishment, but for the sake of their human visitors, she was glad the two most frightening of her brood were out.

She put the manual down and walked towards the door, head tilting slightly as she revised her speculation.

One visitor only. Light, too. The thin, awkward-looking man from #7 perhaps, or one of his children?

She reached the door and waited for the bell to ring, her lips quirking as she overheard exasperated mutterings from the young male on the other side. Imprecations against the weather, his family, the Cullen's own sanity for moving here and puddles which misrepresented their depth and were obviously driven by evil to take him out - all grumbled under his breath before one hand knocked firmly – but not loudly – on the door.

She waited a moment, then opened it.

It could be said that there was a drowned rat on her doorstep.

Except, the boy's large green eyes (heightened further by retro glasses) and weather-defying spikes of hair made him look more like a disgruntled kitten that had just fallen into a pond and clawed its way out with an expression of aggressive 'you didn't see NUFFIN'.

In short, the boy was the cutest little human she'd seen in decades and her fingers _itched_ with the desire to go paint him, soaked clothing, sagging cardboard box and all.

"Hello." She greeted, managing to smile and _not_ pinch his cheeks and squeal like the woman inside her wanted. The boy nodded politely back, replying with a "Good afternoon, Mrs Cullen." which just sounded so adorably _proper_ that her smile widened into almost a grin.

She stepped back, ushering him inside and out of the rain. He entered reluctantly, unlike everyone else on the street, and judging from his expression he seemed to worry about ruining the floor.

"Let me get you a towel." Esme offered cheerfully and left before the boy could protest or acquiesce. She needed a moment to herself to recover from her unexpected reaction. She knew that even after death, she had maintained her maternal persona and desire for children. Something about the skinny, cold, wet teenager in her foyer just seemed to pluck every chord she had.

When she returned, she saw that the boy was holding the dripping cardboard box close to his body, angling it so the drips fell onto his shoes rather than the floor.

"Here you are." She said brightly, quite unable to keep herself from smiling. She unfolded the large bath towel and flicked it around the boy's thin shoulders, tucking it firmly and carefully into his arms before relieving him of the box.

"Why don't you take your shoes off and move into the lounge room?" She offered, not pausing long enough to allow him to decline. Carrying the box she swept into the lounge room and placed it carefully on the coffee table before moving to the kitchen to rapidly unpack, clean, fill and switch on the kettle.

As she worked, she listened to the boy toeing off his shoes and using the bath towel (which, large as it was, had corners touching the floor) to dry his feet as thoroughly as he could before moving into the lounge room. She could hear that he remained standing for a long time, perhaps uncertain of getting wet clothes on the couch.

When she returned with two mugs (her own simply being hot water – tasteless and harmless) she found that he had seated himself on the floor, carefully folding the towel to provide maximum protection for the carpet.

Knowing that to offer the couch or armchairs after he'd already sat down would just cause awkward tension, she instead placed his drink on the table before him with a smile and settled opposite him on the couch before the box. She noticed the boy was warming his hands on the cup but seemed disinclined to drink first, so she took a quick sip of her own.

Tacit permission given, he bent his head to drink the hot chocolate she'd made.

It was almost surreal. Were all English children so restrained? The unpleasant large boy from the day before seemed the total opposite of this one. _He'd_ been barely reigned in by his parents. Which family did this one belong to, she wondered, to have learnt such quietly respectful habits?

Had she not been a vampire, with heightened awareness, it was very probable she'd have missed the boy's silent cues after spending a lifetime interacting with louder, more outgoing American children. 

The hot chocolate seemed to be a big hit. The mug was lifted higher and higher as the boy drained the cup, pale throat flexing as he swallowed. Esme automatically averted her gaze, ducking her head to look at the box instead. After smelling blood on her children, she was more sensitive to it than usual. Watching the slim, youthful throat pulse with life as it bared itself innocently before her was a bit of a test.

She looked up again as the cup clicked down onto the table, the boy rubbing a thumb over his mouth to catch any stray drops.

"Sorry." He said after clearing his throat. "That was delicious."

He reached forward and opened the box.

"My aunt wanted me to bring these over for you." The boy's voice was neutral but he couldn't hide the look of distaste evident in the crease of his eyes.

"Just stuff she thought you might like to see." He pulled out a wad of pamphlets and put it back in, moving it so the rest of the items were visible. "Sort of 'welcome to England' stuff, I guess."

"Thank you." Esme smiled. "Which aunt is this?"

The boy looked momentarily startled and embarrassed.

"Oh, Petunia. Dursley. Number four?"

"Oh!" Esme exclaimed in honest surprise. That pinched woman with the obese, awful child had also raised this quiet, polite child? Maybe this one was well-behaved enough to be left home alone whilst the other boy had to be brought along. Now that she knew, of course, she could see the family resemblance. Both Petunia and this boy had the same fine bone structure.

She said as much to the teen and was somewhat alarmed to see his face shut down, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"...Yeah. Sure." The boy bit out, his demeanour dark and cold.

He stood.

"Excuse me please, Mrs Cullen. I have chores to do." Was the positively frosty follow-up, before the boy simply turned and left, barely pausing long enough to slip on his shoes.

Esme stood to follow but didn't know what to say. She didn't even know what she'd said that had made him angry!

As the door closed sharply - almost but not quite a slam – the air stirred behind her.

"I think I just put my foot in my mouth." She sighed, not expecting an answer. Edward hadn't spoken since the accident in Forks. She glanced over anyway (just in case, although she tried not to think about it) and was a little worried to see her eldest son standing still, pupils wide and nose flared as he scented the air.

Cautiously, she tensed. She didn't have Edward's strength or speed, but she couldn't stand by and let Edward lose himself again. Not for the humans' sake, but Edward's. He was already a wreck over his loss of control in Forks. She didn't know what he would do if he lost himself again.

Some of what she was thinking must have gotten through to him, as his ruby-tinted eyes flickered over to her and softened in apology. One hand touched her arm cautiously – reassuringly – before he turned and walked back upstairs to isolate himself once more.

He didn't speak and, not for the first time, Esme wished desperately that he would.

Especially now.

What had caused his interest in the boy, where none of their other neighbors had bothered him?

The boy couldn't be a singer, surely. Edward's control was _less_ now than it was before. If the boy's blood had been like that girl in Forks', Edward would have had his teeth in his throat the second he entered the house.

So, what was it? What had just happened?

And what did it mean for her family? 

_Massacre_

Harry sat on one of the swings in the park, far too wet – and angry – to care about the rain. It was coming down harder now, fat droplets that stung slightly when they hit, and the park and streets were deserted. Afternoon was fading to an early evening and only the occasional car coasted wetly past.

He felt alone. And angry. And upset.

Which was stupid. Mrs Cullen hadn't been trying to be hurtful. _Obviously_, he and his aunt were related and thus would share, ugh, certain characteristics. Remarking on that was.. normal, he supposed.

But to have his skinny, stunted growth remarked upon as nothing more than a genetic similarity to his bony aunt...

_She_ was skinny because she dieted and did cardio in stupid leotards.

_He_ was skinny because for most of his formative years, the bitch had_ withheld food _from him_._

It was like.. it was like his entire life summed up in one short meeting. Nice people, normal people, had looked at him and smiled and _hadn't seen how miserable he was_. Hadn't cared enough to notice his terrible clothes, his quiet manner, his single piece of bruised fruit for lunch.

He felt – cheated. Betrayed.

He felt like it was too late. When he was younger, he hadn't known better. But now? He knew that his life had been nothing short of abusive - emotionally more than physically, but none the less damaging for it.

And this street of nice, normal people.. just hadn't fucking _cared_. Couldn't be bothered to see what was right before their eyes. He'd never been rude to them, or disruptive. Their children had never complained about _him_.

And yet, they believed his aunt and uncle about him. They saw him doing chores and – what? Thought it was punishment for some misbehaviour of his? Figured the abuse his uncle screamed at him semi-regularly was in response to some invisible, awful problem of his?

At some point, he was pretty sure he'd held out hope of leaving this place.

But now... knowing what he did about the prophecy...

He couldn't even run. Voldemort would hunt him for the rest of his life – and so would the thrice-cursed Ministry, for that matter. He wouldn't be allowed to run away from his 'duty' to save them.

To die for them.

And he _was_ going to die. He knew that now, beyond a shadow of a doubt. How could he not? Incompetent teachers, decades less experience, average power...

How desperate was Dumbledore, to willingly blind himself to the truth?

_Either must die at the hand of the other..._

It would be Harry, at Voldemort's hand. It could not go any other way.

And he would spend his last years (months?) living in _this place_, knowing only contempt and revulsion, surrounded by silent witnesses to his short and empty life.

He closed his eyes and fisted his hands in his hair, elbows on his knees. His eyes closed tightly, only warmth on his face a sign that some of the wetness there came not from rain.

Habit kept him quiet, even as his chest shuddered and his mouth parted to help take in sufficient oxygen.

He didn't know how long he spent crying, but when the stinging pressure of rain above him abruptly vanished, his legs were completely numb from interrupted circulation.

He looked up, hands dropping from his hair to the chains on either side of him.

Above him, blocking the rain, was a vividly blue umbrella of higher quality than the normal compact types carried by Londoners. The blue was broken up with intricate stitches in the shape of swirls and flowers and the polished wooden handle was inset with carvings to match.

The hand holding it was pale and slender, with perfectly sculpted nails.

He followed the arm it was attached to, to a young woman of startling beauty. He would have tagged her as a Veela, were it not for the conspicuously absent warmth of ambient Veela magic.

He cleared his throat to (hopefully) remove traces of tears and trusted the rain to have hidden any other signs.

"Can I help you, miss?" He offered politely, not really thinking there could be any other reason for her to bother him – step close enough for her umbrella to shield them both, no less – except a need for directions or something.

The woman (girl? She looked young, but had that mature sort of look that placed her anywhere from mid-teens to mid twenties) just studied him, oddly golden eyes a little too focused for his comfort.

Distractedly, he noticed that her eyes were the same shade as Mrs Cullen. Was this one of her kids? How the hell could she be lost a mere two streets from home?

"Are you alright?" The girl asked abruptly – a little stiltedly.

Harry blinked, one corner of his lips twitching in brief, muted humour.

There he was, angsting over how nobody had noticed him in his life and here was a total stranger _noticing_.

He cleared his throat. "Fine, thank you." He answered dismissively. "Just.. you know. Hanging out."

Golden eyes narrowed a little.

"Hanging out." The girl repeated flatly. "In the freezing rain, without a jacket or even a raincoat. Crying. Do you always lie about obvious truths?"

Harry glared right back, his previous grief and momentary humour consumed instantly by temper.

"Do you always put your nose in other people's business?" He shot back. "If so, you've moved to the right street. I'm sure you and the other housewives will get on famously."

The girl's glare turned vicious and Harry prepared himself for a slap or a verbal attack, but instead the girl just removed her sheltering umbrella and stepped back.

Harry twitched slightly as the rain resumed hitting him like a smack from above.

"I think _anyone_ who sees a kid crying alone in the park and keeps walking isn't worth the air they breathe." She replied acidly. "Whatever your problem is, I probably can't help. But if you want to talk about it, I'm standing right here. Also, not knowing any _housewives_, I'm probably your best bet for some confidentiality."

For several seconds, Harry just stared at her.

Despite her snappish words, there wasn't really any.. well, _angry energy_ about her. What Muggles called body language and intuition, wizards called an aura. Although only those with 'the inner eye' could actually _see_ them, anyone with magic could sense them.

This girl - whoever she was - genuinely wanted to help him. She was just going about it in a clumsy, unfamiliar, slightly bullying way.

Harry wondered if she was a big sister or something. He'd seen some really domineering ones at Hogwarts who sometimes acted like total bitches even as they helped or comforted their younger siblings.

He sighed.

"Thanks, I guess. I appreciate the sentiment. Really." He added at her sceptical look. "But, I.. well. I'm just freaking out a little."

Despite himself, he felt his cheeks heat slightly. He was responding honestly in deference to her genuine attempt to help, but still.. talking about himself having a breakdown in the rain like some tragic heroine to a very stylishly beautiful girl was a little.. embarrassing

"Over what?" The girl asked implacably, refusing to be gently rebuffed or reassured.

Harry hesitated for a moment, caught between wanting to be honest but obviously unable to say 'some prick of a dark wizard wants to kill me, but probably not before torturing me into insanity first'.

"I.. I'm going to die." he admitted aloud, swallowing tightly as giving voice to his belief made something inside him spike with fear and grief and rage. "It's terminal, I guess. There's nothing anyone can do about it – short of a miracle, I suppose."

He didn't look at her as he spoke, not wanting to see whatever expression she'd make. Disbelief, probably. He wasn't sure if that or awkward pity or embarrassment for pushing him would be worse.

There was a long silence.

Then the rain stopped again. Harry blinked at the pair of expensive-looking heeled boots standing before him and looked up to see the girl was once more holding her umbrella over them both.

"Well, that sucks." The blonde said honestly, her face lacking any trace of anger or even scepticism "I guess I was right – I can't help."

Harry couldn't stop himself from laughing shortly.

"You mean you actually believe me?" He asked incredulously, not used to that kind of instant acceptance.. from anybody, really. Wizard and Muggle alike.

The girl was utterly impassive for a moment, standing so still she was like a very beautiful statue.

Then, "I'm pretty good at knowing when people are telling the truth." She replied carefully. "So, how long do you have left?"

Harry just blinked at her.

"Uh.. I don't know." He answered blankly. "A year? Probably less. If I do everything I possibly can to put it off, then maybe longer. Except, of course, then I wouldn't have much of a life."

The girl nodded.

"That's true. I guess all you can do is enjoy what time you have left. And I mean _really_ go crazy. What cop is going to convict a terminally ill kid, after all?"

Harry burst out laughing, the swing shifting forward lightly as he tilted his head back.

"True, true.." He grinned, his eyes brightening a little for the first time in a long time. "How far do you think I can push it?"

The girl's own mouth lifted in a smile, her head tilting in mock thought, her shiny hair moving like silk despite the muggy weather.

"Well, probably not anything really exciting like murder." She mused. "But streaking naked through Bond street.. maybe stealing a car for some joyriding or breaking into a bank just to see if you can.. those are all probably doable."

Harry grinned again, his whole face lighting up with amusement.

"And I suppose this encouragement for criminal behaviour is entirely philanthropic." He said dryly, actually beginning to enjoy the conversation.

This time, the girl smiled. It made her look younger and somehow more lovely than before.

"Of course." She agreed. "Any personal amusement would be entirely coincidental."

Harry laughed again, softer this time. As he did, the rain began to let up, changing abruptly from heavy droplets to a fine mist. The sudden lack of noise against the ground and umbrella was striking.

"Well, I suppose I'd better be getting back to.. back home." He amended, before smiling genuinely at the blonde.

"Thank you. I do feel better." He said genuinely, if a little awkwardly. His darker emotions still lurked about the corners of his mind but he could forget them for a little while.

The girl nodded, equally awkward but hiding it better.

"You're welcome." She paused a fraction of a second before holding out her hand. When Harry took it to shake, she pulled him to his feet with unexpected ease.

"I'm Rosalie." She introduced herself simply, holding his hand only lightly.

Harry's lips quirked as he answered. "Harry."

They shook hands once before letting go.

There was a short silence.

"Well, I'm at number 4, so.." He hesitated, very unused to saying something like this to a Muggle. "I'll... see you around?"

The girl blinked after a moment.

"Yes." She answered decisively. "Goodnight, Harry."

Harry bid her goodnight as she turned and walked briskly out of the park, her heels clicking loudly against the wet paving stones. Harry watched her go, thoughtfully.

So.

First Emmett and now Rosalie.

They weren't like everyone else on Privet drive. They seemed.. inherently _different_.

It was a nice change. 

_I hope you enjoyed._


	3. Chapter 3

**NewBlueToo, **I can't reply to your review because your PM is disabled, but there was, there won't be and yes.

**Massacre**

**July 8th (continued)**

"Hello Emmett." Esme greeted without turning, on her knees under the desk as she patiently put the last of their ethernet cables into the router. "Where's Rosalie?"

"She's left me." Emmett joked, opening the fridge and fishing out some cold blood with a grimace. "For some piece of British action."

A hand reached past him for another bottle and Emmett eyed his brother carefully.

Having walked in the pouring rain, the scent of humans on him should be greatly diminished – but he'd also been amongst a lot of them.

Edward didn't even look at him. He'd been all 'nobody else exists' since they'd first regained control back in America. Frankly it made him a little angry. Shit happened, right? They'd tried their best but Singers _did_ happen - he should know, he'd killed two already - and they really were risking it big in the first place to go to a school full of humans. Forks had been a disaster waiting to happen - and they were all fools for relying so heavily on Alice's precognition as a safety net.

Edward didn't even look at him, despite having no doubt heard every word of his thoughts.

Esme, on the other hand, walked in with her nose up a little as she sniffed delicately. The sound of Windows booting up in the background heralded her victory over technology.

"He wouldn't happen to have had black hair?" She asked curiously. "Young, a little skinny?"

Emmett nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing around for Rosalie out of reflex. A slight smirk touched Edward's face before he vanished upstairs again. Emmett scowled briefly after him.

"Yeah, the kid from number... four? I think? Anyway, it was that one I told you about before – digging up the yard in the rain."

Esme nodded. "That's right. Petunia's nephew." She said quietly, almost to herself. Then she looked up and smiled slyly.

"He has beautiful green eyes." She teased. "And very charming manners. I'm not sure you should have left your wife alone with him."

Emmett froze for a second before he shook his head.

"Nah. Not Blackie. Rosie likes her men with more muscle." He asserted, although not as confidently as he probably intended to.

Esme laughed softly and closed the fridge he'd left open.

"I'm a little surprised she stopped, then." She said honestly. "When he left here a little while ago, he wasn't very happy."

"Yeah." Emmett broke in. "I know. He was crying in the park. You know how much of a softie Rosie can be." Once again, he glanced around reflexively for marital wrath.

Esme just blinked. "He.. was crying?" She repeated in confusion and worry. "But he was so angry when he left." She frowned, clearly blaming herself.

"Huh." Emmett replied, brow furrowing a little. "Well, you know, kids these days. They're all a bunch of emos." Instead of cheering Esme up, his words deepened her frown.

"But he was just such a sweetheart." She fretted. "All I said was that I could see the family resemblance between him and his aunt."

"Maybe he's adopted." Emmett offered, with typical bluntness. "Or, if he lives with his Aunt, maybe his parents kicked the bucket recently."

He regretted it a little when Esme just looked even more distressed. Wincing, he tried to fix it.

"Don't worry. I'm sure after Rosie's had a piece of him, he'll forget all about whatever it was you said."

Esme turned abruptly away as Jasper's muttered '_Shut up, idiot_' came a little too late.

"Sorry, Esme." He apologised. "You know the relationship between my mouth and my foot."

Esme turned back with a reassuring smile that did nothing to disguise the persistent concern in her eyes.

"I'm not upset, Emmett." She assured him. "I'm just a little worried. I think maybe I should go over to number 4 and apologise..."

She trailed off, unsure. Although she was a very successful designer and could deal with clients and workers with ease, she wasn't that used to social situations. Even in a small town like Forks, she really only went outside to go shopping or hunting, with most of her work being done from an office within her home. It had never been an issue before and she found it easier to resist temptation by removing the temptation altogether.

But now she just couldn't shake the thought that she'd made that sweet little boy cry – couldn't shake the need to fix it, somehow. Even if it meant stepping outside of her normal comfort zone.

"I could kidnap him for you?" Emmett offered helpfully. "Bag over his head, an isolated warehouse, say '**Esme sends her regret**' and then knock him out and dump him home again. Problem solved!"

Esme turned a slightly amused (mostly horrified) look on him, but it wasn't her that answered.

"You touch one hair on that kid's head," Rosalie snapped, shaking off her umbrella before closing the front door behind her. "And you can consider yourself cut off for the next _century_."

Emmett gaped. Esme brightened and moved closer.

"You liked him too?"

Rosalie shrugged one shoulder as she slipped off her coat.

"He's alright." She replied. "A bit moody."

She folded the coat over her arm and shook her hair out as she walked into the living room. She paused and sniffed delicately for a moment - no doubt picking up the stronger scent of the boy there.

"Did you find out why he was crying?" Emmett asked, trying to take her coat. He backed off when she shot him a look. Rosalie looked disinclined to answer at first, until she noticed Esme's attention.

"He's dying, apparently. I couldn't smell any sickness, but..." She trailed off, shrugging. Vampires lacked the sensitivity of, say, dogs (or werewolves). They could smell better than humans, but mostly their senses focused on prey/not prey, enemies or danger. _Some_ human diseases were detectable because if a vampire drank from them, it would make the vampire sick. Ones that didn't affect vampires generally went undetected.

"Oh no!" Esme cried, both hands covering her mouth.

"Wait." Emmett interrupted. "What does that have to do with him looking like his aunt?" He looked between Rosalie and Esme, confused. Some of Esme's dismay eroded under her own confusion.

"It was probably a trigger."

All three of them turned sharply. They weren't surprised that they hadn't heard Jasper coming – of all of them, he could move the most silently. They _were_ surprised to see him at all. Before now, he hadn't budged from his self-imposed isolation.

Yet there he stood, a little dusty from extended motionlessness and frowning slightly at Rosalie.

He turned back to Esme as he continued.

"When you mentioned his resemblance to his Aunt, he was more hurt than angry. Bitter, too. The reason for that aside, it's not unlikely that those emotions would be linked to other memories or situations sharing those emotions, leading to his break down in the park."

There was a pause.

"There you go!" Emmett said triumphantly. "Not your fault at all, Esme."

Esme just smiled weakly at him and went back to the computer whilst Rosalie shot him a sour look before leaving the room.

Jasper, who knew Emmett wasn't half as cheerful as he pretended to be, just clapped him on the shoulder and retrieved his own bottle of blood.

Left alone in the living room, Emmett sighed. This was exactly why they tried to cultivate a stand-offish attitude in school. It was too easy to be hurt by the many fragilities of human life.

_Massacre_

Back at number 4, Harry managed to escape to his room with only minimal grilling from his aunt. Had the Cullens appreciated her welcome gift? How did they look, what did they say? What had he thought he was doing, not returning home immediately to report?

But, like before, there was something about his Aunt that was just a bit... nervous? Almost like she didn't really want to know, or was compelled to know but not out of interest alone. Whatever it was, she was so twisted up by it that she declared that night was 'family night' and phoned Vernon to instruct him to make reservations at their favourite restaurant.

Which meant Harry was off the hook, cooking-wise. Once the three Dursleys were out of the house he nipped downstairs to make himself a meal with the absolute least effort required (poptarts) before returning to his room.

To practice magic.

'_Sleight-of-hand and other wandless magiks' _was, for the most part, an incredibly dry and dull book. The author waffled on like a student trying frantically to pad an essay and it was just as difficult to read. Few of the concepts in the book were particularly exciting (there were three entire chapters all dedicated to _seeming_ to do wandless magic with one hand, whilst actually spelling with a wand in the other) but there was one tiny little nugget of information that had exploded in his mind.

The book described how 'ambient magic' (the magic utilised for most divination methods) could be used for far more impressive wandless feats. Such as re-heating a cup of tea whilst holding it, or smoothing (or cleaning of food) one's beard whilst stroking it. Such ambient magic, concentrated most strongly in the palms and fingers, the book said, could do theoretically anything (so long as it was a sufficiently small task).

Harry ran an experimental hand over his desk, focusing intently on the desired result. Sure enough, like wiping away a layer of dust, the desk gleamed like new in the wake of his palm. Less-successful streaks of slightly cleaner, patchy wood was visible where his fingers had touched.

Grinning around his apple-cinnamon poptart, the wizard-in-training went slightly mad. Over the next few hours he ran his hands over almost every inch of his room, first polishing the floorboards, then changing their colour to a glossy honey-brown. The walls lost their dreary strains and now sported great (messy) swathes of fresh colours. He tried and failed to charm the window like the ones in the ministry (he could only assume it was 'too large' a task for ambient magic) but he _did_ succeed in staining the wooden frame to match his floor and, inch by inch, transfigured a ratty old towel into a white, gauzy curtain.

Well, okay. A gauzy piece of fabric he draped over the window's old hooks to _mimic_ a curtain. Sue him, after a decade living in a cupboard he _liked_ the sense of freshness a billowy curtain brought.

Although all the magic was reasonably simple (one type of cloth into another, cleaning, polishing, colour changes) having to focus and touch every tiny bit that he wanted to affect was time consuming and exhausting. It was well past midnight, the Dursleys snoring in their beds, before he collapsed into his own.

Stomach grumbling with hunger, he smiled.

It was so worth it.

_Massacre_

**July 9th**

He groaned when the late night caused him to sleep through his alarm. Being woken by a pinched-faced Aunt's slap to the back of the head was _not_ a nice way to start the day. Still, as he got dressed and 'smoothed out' a few stains and tears and worn spots in Dudley's old clothes, he again thought it was worth it.

It occurred to him halfway down the stairs that Petunia hadn't said anything about the obvious changes in his room - floor aside, the multicoloured wall would be difficult to miss. Then again, maybe that was what the slap had been about? Regardless, he didn't press his by luck asking to have breakfast and instead slipped out the front door to continue gardening.

The sun was out today, if weakly. Grey clouds brushed against black, tiny gaps releasing beams of light. Harry grinned at it. It was almost like the weather itself was reflecting his mood. Still a bit stormy, but brighter on the whole.

He got to work, carefully peeling the tarp off of the pile of equipment and plants. Yesterday's heavy rain was still puddled on it and filled the bottom of the hole he'd dug. He'd have to wait for it to dry before he could continue with it, but most of the plants could be put in to the rest of the garden.

A few hours' work, maybe. It wasn't like number 4's garden was particularly large.

About halfway into the project, a slight shadow made him look up.

The guy from Friday was leaning against the fence again, grinning.

In a bit better humour this time, Harry's groan was mostly jocular.

"Don't you have anyone else to harass?" He grumbled, loosening the roots on a plant with brilliant orange and red flowers. It, along with several others, were to be planted along the fence line.

"Not yet." The guy replied cheerfully, anorak's hood pulled up and over his head.

"..Emmett, right?" Harry asked, only just remembering his name. Emmett grinned, as if by doing so he'd just proclaimed them friends.

"That's me! How ya been, Blackie?"

Harry paused and squinted at the guy. Having never had a nickname before in his life (unless you counted 'boy' or 'freak' or maybe 'scar head') he wasn't quite sure how to react to this one. What did it even mean, anyway? Was it friendly or taunting? If it had come from any of Dudley's friends, he'd know they were making fun of his hair, but...

"...Fine." He answered warily. "And you?"

Emmett grinned again like he'd just said something funny, which frankly just made him _more_ suspicious that he was being subtly made fun of.

After Dudley and Draco, 'subtle' wasn't something he was used to. 

"Not too bad. A little worried my girlfriend might leave me for you, but whatever."

It took a second for Harry to grasp what had just been said. The daisy plant dropped roughly into its hole as his grip slipped.

"What?!"

Green eyes met muddy gold as the larger teen winked.

"You know, golden hair? Super hot? Rosalie?"

Harry stared.

"...isn't she your sister?"

"Yep!" Emmett grinned, impossibly wider.

Harry blinked and chuckled. "Wow, you are so lucky you didn't say that to anyone else." He shook his head, turning back to the plant. "You'd be reported for incest by the end of the day!"

"But you won't, huh?" The burly guy was definitely amused.

Harry shrugged. He had no idea if the guy was telling the truth or not, but even if he were - it wasn't any of his business.

"It's not like you're hurting anyone." He replied, pressing soil around the plant and fetching another.. "Except maybe your future mutant babies..."

That, oddly enough, caused the grin to dim.

"Yeah, well... babies aren't really in our cards, ya know?"

Harry paused. Incest or not, the guy was honestly sad about it. A little wary about offering condolences on something which may or may not be a good thing, Harry just shrugged one shoulder with a sympathetic expression and turned back to his work.

"So..." Emmett seemed to shake it off. "I don't suppose you need any help?"

Harry sat back on his heels and stared. Seriously, what was _with_ this guy and helping? Once was a polite offer, twice was something... else.

"Are you with the Order?" He asked flatly, unable to shake the niggling suspicion. There was something _different_ about the Cullens he'd met... it wouldn't be such a leap for them to be like Mrs Figg, guards who had the luxury of a public presence.

The blank incomprehension on the other boy's face seemed to indicate otherwise, though. He was just an oddly helpful, or really bored, guy.

"Sorry, never mind." Harry shook his head. "Sure, if you want."

A quirk of his lips and Emmett jumped the fence, shoes squishing into the mud. Harry blinked at the polished leather - _not _your typical shoes for a walk, let along _gardening_. He opened his mouth to comment on it before changing his mind and pointed at the guide-holes dug along the fence instead.

"My aunt wants a 'country garden' effect, but its also gotta be ordered or she'll pop an aneurysm." Harry explained before switching to point at the rows of small potted plants lined up against the wall. Marigolds, wishy-washy white petunias, lavenders, bell flowers - and a lot more he didn't recognise on sight, only half of which were currently flowering. "So, the big orange/red ones every second hole closest to the fence, with the yellow/purple in between them. The bell-shaped flowered plants go in the line of holes next to them and finally these tiny ones in the holes closest to us - they won't flower for another couple of weeks, so just stick 'em wherever." He jerked his thumb back at the house. "After these are in, the rest go against the house, biggest at the back, but I can't dig those holes until there's space, so..."

"Gotcha." Emmett nodded, rolling up his sleeves and taking an armload of plants to the fence on the other side of the walkway, where he then dropped to his knees without care for the nice pants he was wearing. Harry wondered if Mrs Cullen would shout at him for it later. It seemed the sort of thing Mrs Weasley would do to one of _her_ kids, if they dirtied their 'nice clothes' so readily.

Which was weird, come to think of it, considering cleaning them was only a wand flick of effort... 

The two worked in silence at first, before Emmett broke it with questions on Harry's enjoyment and experience with gardening. The guy was easy to talk to, prone to jokes, and listened with apparent interest to everything Harry had to say. He found himself chatting freely after a while, skirting the magical aspects of the plants he'd worked on in Herbology and expounding on how crazy his aunt was about order and cleanliness - again, skirting certain details such as the times she smacked him around for being dirty or bringing dirt into the house. Like he could _help_ it when Dudley used to push him to the ground and whale on him.

It was different to how he spoke to Ron. With Ron, Harry was more the active listener than speaker. They spoke primarily about Wizard things, mostly quidditch and sometimes about particular classes or students. They spoke 'in the now', rarely touching on the past or future, and Harry was surprised to find - as he shared some primary school stories with the veritable stranger that was Emmett Cullen - that being listened to so attentively could be so enjoyable. Several times Harry caught himself and directed questions back at his companion, unwilling to be 'the Ron' in this conversation.

Emmett was interesting and had a barrel and a half of his _own_ stories, some of which had Harry in stitches, but he kept directing the topic back to Harry with an almost unconscious ease that Harry would only notice when he thought about it later.

Harry and the well-dressed Cullen were just getting into a good-natured argument about football versus baseball, when Emmett's mobile abruptly rang. It only took a second of listening to whoever called before Emmett was making hasty apologies and muddy tracks as he headed back home.

Harry waved after him but was too content to be perturbed at the abrupt departure. He tilted his head up as the sun finally broke through the clouds in earnest, warming his skin. Between them, Harry and Emmett had finished planting almost all of the flowers along the front. Just a couple more and Harry could _very lightly_ water them down before seeking new orders.

But for now he just stayed kneeling in the sun, enjoying the warmth as it was competed against by a cool breeze.

He felt kind of like he'd found something he hadn't even known he'd been missing.

Humming bits and pieces of a song he'd heard blaring in Dudley's room, he got back to work.

_ I hope you enjoyed._


	4. Chapter 4

There's this great anonymous person who keeps catching my typos and errors. Thank you anonymous person! I appreciate it!

**Massacre**

**July 10th**

The next day actually got him a pursed-lip nod of approval, as Aunt Petunia surveyed her domain and found it was good.

The flowers looked alive and enticing, making Number 4 stand out in the 'normal' society way his aunt craved so much. Most of the other gardens were in various stages of development, but none had dedicated labour like Harry, and none had started with something so pleasing to the eye as Number 4's fence-bursting row of brilliant flowers.

An utterly unexpected further show of approval - no doubt prompted by the admiration of their neighbours - was a glass of lemonade and _two_ ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches for lunch. From her to him, it was practically a five course meal.

He was a little ashamed of himself for how happy it made him feel. Like, he should know _better_ from years of working and failing to gain their approval. Her bare show of approval now was fleeting and as flimsy as tissue paper, but...

He'd done something that his Aunt was happy with, and she'd rewarded him for it.

"Good dog." He muttered to himself, enjoying his sandwiches but trying to keep his expectations low. This was a once-in-a-blue moon sort of thing, he shouldn't get used to it or the next time she belittled his hard work it would just sting all the more.

Still, as the clouds misted rainwater that threw massive rainbows over the roofs of Privet Drive, he couldn't help but be happy.

He savoured his lunch, experiencing the combination of flavours from meat, dairy and fruit. The lemonade was also an entirely new experience for him - there was nothing like it at Hogwarts - and as soon as he finished his glass he wanted some more.

No wonder Dudley kept a couple of boxes of cans in his room at all times.

As he sat on the porch, chewing slowly and looking out at the cheerful flowers and vibrant rainbows, he thought he saw something glint like light off a knife. Turning slightly, he stopped dead, mid chew.

A boy was watching him, staring at him, from the garden of number 11. He was dressed head to toe in dressy black, like he was just back from a funeral. His long sleeved shirt was rolled neatly up to his elbows, exposing smoothly muscled forearms. His shirt was also unbuttoned at the top - nothing indecent, probably just an allowance for the muggy weather - and both stretches of skin just... glittered a bit. It was barely visible at this distance and Harry squinted slightly, trying to work out what was causing it.

The boy was standing in the gentle mist, and maybe had been long enough for a slick of reflective water on his skin? The boy himself wasn't moving, was absolutely still in a way that made Harry's back prickle uncomfortably, but the tiny pinpricks of light moved and flexed as though he were.

He glanced up to see if the same thing was happening on the boy's face, thinking that maybe he just needed to get his own eyes checked.

Fierce ruddy eyes locked with his, intent and searching

Harry's every muscle tensed, his magic prickling under his skin, ready to defend.

The other boy blinked, seemed to realise he was standing in the increasingly heavy rain and turned on his heel, vanishing into the Cullen house without a word.

Slowly, Harry breathed out.

So. Another Cullen.

His empty glass clacked sharply against his plate as his trembling hands put them both down on the porch.

He didn't know why he was reacting like he'd just faced down a Death Eater. Unless...

Maybe his initial assumption that the Cullens were with the Order was more wrong than he'd realised. Maybe they were with Voldemort. But no, no. That was ridiculous. If they were, they would have already attacked him, right?

Maybe he was paranoid, but all he knew was that his vision was suddenly sharper, his magic all but singing in his ears and his heart pumping hard, ready for battle.

Thunder crackled in the distance, the wind picking up and making Number 7's wind-chime loudly discordant. Even the scent of rain was edged with ozone, as if the weather was - besides apparently schizophrenic - also wary of this slender, good-looking Cullen.

"Shake it off." He scolded himself, launching down the steps to heave the discarded tarp over the large hole in the ground once more, propping it at an angle and weighing it down with the remaining waterproof bags of dirt. He'd just have to hope that the flowers would survive being drenched again.

From Number 2 next door, a man started loudly cursing the weatherman. Apparently he'd taken the day off on the promise of sunny weather. Shortly afterward came the slam of one of the front windows, as his wife - just as loudly but now slightly muffled - took exception to him airing his grievances where everyone and God could hear him.

Especially 'that Petunia'.

"Who needs television, right?"

The unexpected voice had Harry jumping a mile, the all-body flinch of startled reaction literally lifting him off the ground for a moment.

By the time he gathered himself and turned around, Rosalie was laughing at him.

Harry scowled, or tried to. He couldn't quite stop himself from chuckling a little instead as the blonde tried and failed to quiet herself.

Rosalie was as pretty as before. He didn't really remember much beyond her hair and blue umbrella from their first meeting but today she looked sort of... _bold Scot_. Sleek red ankle boots, black stockings and a red _tartan skirt_ of all things were topped by a long-sleeved black shirt with a sort of faint tartan pattern picked out in lines of glittering thread. Even her umbrella matched the theme, with a stout black wooden handle and mechanism under a defiantly red tartan runner.

Rosalie noticed his inspection and flicked her hair back behind her shoulders, revealing discrete red gems glittering from her earlobes.

"Wow." Harry said at length. "When you pick a theme, you really commit."

"It's called fashion, you poor ignorant Englishman." Rosalie shot back, cocking her chin in a haughty manner. "Though I forgive your reprehensible reaction as you clearly are deficient in that area."

Harry looked down at the castoffs he was wearing, the same things he'd been wearing since before he started Hogwarts - Dudley really was _just that big_. These were actually nicer than they ever had been before - they were repaired, unstained and unwrinkled, thanks to ambient magic.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He sniffed. "Obscenely ill-fitting clothing is what _all_ the cool kids are wearing."

Rosalie rolled her eyes, the action so unrefined - so un-Rosalie, for all that he hadn't known her very long - that Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"Okay, okay, so these are my cousin's cast-offs. But for gardening in the rain, they're perfect." He amended good-naturedly.

"For gardening, yes." Rosalie replied, her tone utterly contradicting her words. "But you won't be gardening today."

Harry paused.

"...I won't?"

"You won't." Rosalie confirmed. "I have two tickets for _Cats_ and Emmett whined like a little girl when I told him, so I decided to bring you instead."

Harry blinked. Gaped. Stared.

This was so far beyond his experience that he could do little else.

"Um. I, er. Ah. Are-are you sure?" He stuttered, one hand running through his sodden hair, unknowingly making one semi-flat section amidst a mass of vertical spikes.

"Have you been before?" Rosalie enquired.

"No." Harry replied automatically. "I've never been... like, to anything."

"Good." The blonde replied, satisfaction evident. "It's always more enjoyable to experience new things with someone to whom it's also a discovery."

She hesitated for a split second, barely enough for Harry to notice before continuing.

"I would appreciate it, if you would accompany me." The girl all but ordered.

Harry got the impression that she wasn't really used to delicacy.

He smiled, a slow, shy thing that grew in unfamiliar territory.

"...Yeah. Yes. Thank you. I'd like that."

"Good." Rosalie nodded briskly. "Now, go get changed. It might not be an evening show, but I think your fashion might be a little too... _cool_... for them."

Harry grinned and nodded, scooping up his plate and glass and running inside, barely remembering to dry his shoes on the mat Aunt Petunia kept beside the door.

Not wanting to brave his Aunt in the kitchen, where she was leafing through garden magazines and chatting to Mrs-Whoever on the phone, he snuck upstairs and left the dishes in his room before changing into some dry clothes and making an attempt to comb his hair. He knew it would start to stick up again as soon as the wind picked up, but hey - he tried!

A very old shirt of Dudley's that was off-grey but still had the buttons in the sleeves and that almost fit him was shrugged on first. Harry hesitated before attempting to change the colour. The off-grey was grungy looking, and compared to Rosalie... well. The fact that it almost fit him wouldn't be good enough.

Despite his excitement, his magic worked well. After a few swipes, he twigged that he would need to take it off again in order to reach all of it and thus discovered that he had turned _patches of his skin_ an inky black colour as well. That caused him to pause for a moment, but poking it didn't hurt at all, so hopefully it was just like a glamour or a food dye or something.

He finished the shirt just as something small plinked off of his window, Rosalie's voice calling his name in clear irritation.

He didn't dare yell back, in case his aunt heard him, so he just hurriedly shrugged the shirt back on, buttoned it and hopped into a pair of black school pants. Dudley's old sneakers were the only shoes he owned, so the damp (and now slightly pong-y) shoes were shoved back on as well before he made his way stealthily down the stairs.

He was almost surprised to see Rosalie still waiting for him and was even more surprised to see the black taxi cab waiting behind her.

For some reason, he'd kind of expected the Knight Bus.

He really _was_ getting Wizard-ised.

His clothing got a raised eyebrow from the sleek blonde, but no remarks. Despite that, or maybe because of it, Harry apologised.

"It's the nicest stuff I have." He shrugged, abashed. "At boarding school, I mostly just wear PJs or the uniform, so..."

"It brings out your eyes." Was the unexpected reply, as Rosalie opened the taxi door after a slight pause and settled herself inside. Harry joined her, acutely aware of his ratty (smelly) sneakers and simple clothing.

And, come to that, his ugly glasses.

It wasn't like he was _dating_ Rosalie - he knew she was very much already in a relationship with Emmett, and frankly he kinda preferred her as a friend, but...

She was so put-together that for the first time in a long time, he felt self conscious and embarrassed about his own appearance.

He wondered if this was how Ron felt, when faced with the differences between their finances. Nobody's fault, but...

Rosalie looked nice - looked classy. Harry looked like a slob, especially in comparison.

Silently, he vowed to get some gold from Gringotts, exchange it and finally buy himself some simple, good clothing. It didn't need to be high-end - just something that fit him and wasn't a few years worn already.

With that resolve in mind, he sat back and enjoyed the experience of _going out_, something previously only done by the Dursleys.

_Massacre_

The show had been amazing.

It had figuratively blown Harry's mind, in a way not unlike how magic had, the first time he'd seen it.

The music, permeating the very air around him. The dancing. The details in costume and acting, the emotions infusing both lyrics and performance...

It really _was_ magic, in a way, just like Dumbledore had claimed at the start of his very first year.

But this kind of magic was _way_ better than the roar of noise created by hundreds of teenagers singing different songs at once.

The whole experience left him hungry for more. He wanted to go back in and watch the whole thing again. He wanted to go next door and watch whatever _they_ were putting on. He wanted to go on stage himself and be part of that strange magic, of the energy that seemed to connect every actor to each other

He felt kind of like another hidden world had been opened for him, but this was one he could have known - maybe _should_ have known long before now.

He lived in _England_, after all. Theatre was big business. It was just never something he'd thought about, let alone thought of attending.

If Rosalie hadn't taken him today, he didn't know that he ever _would_ have thought about it, especially after finishing Hogwarts and leaving the Muggle world behind.

It made him wonder how many little worlds existed to discover and explore and enjoy, if only people would look for them.

It kind of made the Wizarding world feel just a little less special.

Rosalie seemed in turn amused by his reaction and genuinely happy with it. She spoke just as enthusiastically about what they'd experienced, if a little more eloquently, and listened to his opinions and rambling ideas with attentive interest.

The show had run to late afternoon and eventually Harry had think about how he was going to get to Diagon alley and back without seeming to snub Rosalie. At the very least, he wanted to pay for their taxi home again, but he couldn't do that without first getting some money.

Luckily, Rosalie wanted to window shop so Harry steered her towards The Leaky Cauldron, promising that all the good shops were on Charing Cross road, then announced the need for a quick loo break and all but ran to the Wizarding pub. Before entering, he slipped off his glasses and slicked his wet hair forward, hiding his scar and temporarily changing his distinctive hair style.

He made his way through the alley at as brisk a walk as he could, jogging up the steps of the bank and managing to nab a cashier just as a witch was leaving.

"Hi, I'm sorry, but I have a Muggle friend waiting outside The Cauldron." Harry explained rapidly and quietly, barely raising his head enough to make eye contact with the goblin. "I need to grab some cash in pounds sterling as quickly as possible please."

The goblin looked both pained and irritated, as if never before had there been a more unreasonably demanding customer in the history of Gringotts.

"Your key?" Snapped the creature. Harry handed it over without delay and the Goblin inspected it briefly before pressing it deeply into a soft block of black wax. The wax turned clear and the Goblin snatched up a piece of parchment and began scribbling on it.

"How much do you want?"

"Uh... a hundred pounds?" Harry suggested randomly, before reconsidering. The taxi in had been expensive and he had no idea what to expect clothes to cost. "Or maybe, five hundred, actually. Um, eight hundred? Sorry."

The Goblin glared at him, despite the fact that he hadn't seemed to have written any numbers down yet. He continued to scribble as the block of wax slowly spat the key back out, then turned and shoved the parchment at him.

Harry couldn't read most of what was on there, but the amount of money was clearly marked, along with a space for him to sign.

A deduction of 170 galleons to his account, 160 of which was his requested amount and 10 of which was the over-the-counter fee.

Ouch. No wonder people normally went down themselves. And, maybe, no wonder the cart ride was so rough.

But, as Harry was already running short on time, he just signed where indicated and shifted from foot to foot impatiently.

The goblin slowly and clearly counted out the money, something about his manner suggesting he was doing it deliberately in the face of Harry's hurry, but Harry just gritted his teeth and bore it. The last thing he needed was to make a scene and have everyone realise who he was.

Soon enough, a small stack of 20 pound notes was handed over, along with his key and a magical duplicate of the parchment he'd signed.

Harry grabbed them and left, barely stopping himself from running simply because a few too many armoured goblins were watching him closely. He knew enough about Goblin wars to know that running whilst in their territory was like inviting a spear to the back. They were suspicious to the bone.

Nothing stopped him from flying down Diagon Alley, however, his feet swift and sure as he dodged the witches and wizards in the confined area, dashing through the pub at the end and bursting onto the street to find a very tense - and swiftly angry - Rosalie.

He offered an excuse about long lines, but he got the impression that she knew or suspected the real reason he'd briefly vanished, and grudgingly forgave him for it.

That forgiveness came a lot easier when he announced his intention to buy a more suitable set of clothing for accompanying such a fashionista and humbly requested her assistance.

Almost three hundred pounds and several arguments later, Harry and Rosalie caught a taxi home. Although both were carrying bags, Harry had successfully paid for all of his own things and even managed to quickly pay the cab fare once they arrived at Privet drive, to Rosalie's mingled exasperation and approval.

As he stood on the doorstep of Number 4, the sun casting long shadows as it shone heavy and yellow and visible for the first time in days, Harry fumbled for the right words to say.

"Thanks." He managed eventually. It wasn't much, but it was utterly heartfelt.

He hadn't known it was _possible_ to enjoy Summer as much as he had today.

"The pleasure was mine." Rosalie returned gracefully, automatic and honest all at once. She held the umbrella open even now, resting on her shoulder and casting her upper body and hands into shadow - Harry could only assume that part of standard fashion requirements included showing off matching accessories, regardless of any actual function.

"God knows, Emmett would have spent the next hour after it maintaining that Rum Tum Tugger was inspired by me." The girl groused with false irritation.

"Rubbish!" Harry rejected stoutly, one hand on the front door. "Grizabella, now..."

He grinned and ducked into the house as Rosalie made to throw one of her shoe boxes at him.

"You can't stay in there forever!" The girl threatened lightly, her heels clicking as she continued walking to Number 11.

Harry would have laughed, just to taunt her, but the presence of his Aunt and Uncle stole the breath from his lungs.

He swallowed, regretting his foolish entry to the house - carrying shopping bags, no less - but unable to regret ditching his chores to go in the first place.

Breathing in carefully, he straightened and closed the door properly.

"Aunt Petunia." He nodded respectfully. "Uncle Vernon."

The two just stared at him, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.

"How _dare_ you?" He aunt whispered furiously.

And so it began.

_I hope you enjoyed_


	5. Chapter 5

I've always wrestled with timeline errors for this fic and some sharp-eyed readers have helped me catch a lot. I've just discovered that I've been working from a skeleton devised under a Yr5 timeline. *headsmash* Screw it. It's fanfiction. I'm changing the way Yr6 Summer turned out.

I recommend you read this story in three quarter view because a) that's how it's written and b) I have an issue where I space things too much and if you read full screen the text doesn't wrap and it looks even worse. Sorry. Also, apologies to those people who were eagerly looking forward to Harry getting knocked around this chapter. :)

**Massacre**

**July 10th (continued)**

Harry had been grounded.

_Grounded_.

He lay on his bed, atlas lying open on his stomach, mouthing the word to himself.

Grounded.

It was... bizarre. Unexpected. _Unprecedented_.

In the Dursley home, Harry was more likely to be thrown _out_ of the house than kept within it. Well, okay, he supposed being locked in his cupboard could be considered 'grounded', but that _word_ had never been used.

Even now, the door to his room _wasn't_ locked, despite the numerous bolts set into it for precisely that purpose.

So, logically, _grounded_ meant 'continue working like a slave, but don't go enjoying yourself with the neighbours' children'.

Or, as Uncle Vernon had said, his 'betters'.

He lifted his atlas back up, still pondering the strange sense of _freedom/confinement_ the word seemed to contain.

**Venice, Italy** he read. Maybe because he was so used to being locked up, a mere restraining _word_ seemed almost... permissive?

**Only known city which maintains a constant temporal flux. ****Piazza San Marco is routinely set to varying past historical periods of note, for tourist and shopping purposes. For other accessible temporal flux locations, see: **_Cremona; Exter; Prague; Rostock; Strasbourg; Versailles; Wells._

Harry hummed to himself, fingertips brushing over the glossy photographs of the Venetian square and astrological clock used in making the time jumps. One photo showed an empty modern square with birds idling and making short flights, another showed the square packed full of merchants wearing olden day costumes - or rather, genuine olden day clothing.

It didn't really interest him, though. He was working his way through Italy and so far only the countryside looked like a nice place to visit.

He turned the page, his mind drifting away again.

_Grounded._

He snorted a laugh and closed the book, dropped it on the floor by his bed and then switched his lamp off.

He hoped Rosalie came by again. He'd enjoy another day out, just as much as he'd enjoy disobeying his non-physical imprisonment.

And if they went back to old tricks? With ambient magic, no lock could keep him inside.

_Massacre_

**July 11th**

So, it turned out, actually, that locks _could_ keep him inside.

Harry sighed and slumped back against his bedroom door. His ambient magic, straining to breech the door and distance to _alohomora_ the locks that had been smartly closed just before breakfast, had been only partially successful. Concentration and dogged determination slid the slide-bolt open, but the three padlocks and two deadbolts were beyond him.

He could hear Petunia and Dudley outside in the garden, Petunia twittering loudly over her flowers and Dudley grunting surly replies.

It was another muggy day, and Dudley clearly would much prefer being inside playing video games and being waited on by his mother. But Petunia was intent on engaging every passing neighbour in conversation, skillfully bypassing their attempts to evade her and quickly shifting the topic to their gardens versus hers.

As Number 4 was currently the only garden with colour, she was pulling ahead and she knew it.

Harry, stomach gurgling a little in quiet complaint, sat on his desk so he could see out the window a bit better and tried to remember that being locked in wasn't so bad now that he could do magic. Sort of.

The gauzy cloth he'd hooked up looked a bit tatty when there wasn't a breeze actively making it billow into the room, so he took it down and ran it through his fingers, trying to think of something else to do with it.

He wasn't a very imaginative person, really. No guesses as to why.

He tried changing the colour, drawing whirls with a fingertip only, but the angle on his lap lead to crooked lines and it looked rubbish so he wiped it clean again and tried making it look lacy instead.

Having no clear idea of what lace looked like close up, that turned into a failure as well.

"_Oh yes, Delilah! My little Diddykins had been toiling away, don't you know! Such a darling child!"_

Harry rolled his eyes.

"_**Mum**__! I'm __**not**__ a __**child**__! And __**don't call me Diddykins**__!__"_

Petunia tittered, a high edge to it that Harry recognised from childhood, when Dudley would throw massive screaming tantrums at the store. The result then was the same as now.

"_Oh yes, sorry Duddums. It really _is_ rather hot out here isn't it, my poor darling? Why don't you run along inside and Mummy will be in soon to make you some lunch, okay sweetums?__"_

"_I want chips!"_

"_Of _course _darling, of course!__"_

Stomping footsteps made the house tremble a little, as Dudley squeezed back through the front door and angrily marched through the house to his room. Harry heard something smash, either accidentally bumped by Dudley's width or - more likely - purposefully knocked over by the mean-spirited brat's sausage-fingers.

"_**Harry broke the vase**__!__" _Dudley shouted stupidly, reflexively blaming the boy who everyone knew was locked away. Then again, seeing as how that hadn't mattered in previous situations, maybe _not_ so stupidly.

Harry watched the door, one ear spared for Petunia's babbling excuses for her son's behaviour, waiting to see if Dudley would try anything.

Fortunately, his door remained untouched, the whale of a teen sulking into his bedroom with a slam and almost immediately blasting his stereo.

Harry scowled at the wall and set the curtain aside to place both hands against it, trying for a wandless _silencio_.

After a few minutes of effort, there wasn't the slightest difference. If he put his ear directly against his hand, the sound in that ear vanished - but the magic wasn't 'sticking' to the wall.

He stood back, chewing his lip as he tried to think of a way around the problem.

"_Psst! Hey, Blackie!_"

Harry blinked and turned to the window, his mood rising in an almost Pavlovian response.

Outside, leaning against the fence between number 4 and number 2, carefully out of sight of the front garden where Petunia was still holding court, was Emmett.

The older teen was wearing another jacket with a very deep hood, despite the muggy weather. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jacket and he rocked on his heels as he grinned up at Harry.

"Hey." Harry greeted, smiling down from his two-story window.

"Hey, hey." Emmett returned. "Can Harry come out to play?"

Harry's smile flickered even as he snorted at the other boy's sing-song mockery.

"No, I can't. I'm..." _locked in_ "grounded."

"Awww." Emmett pouted. It was a strange look on a guy who could out-intimidate a bus. Dark eyes shifted over the house, the garden, the fence, then flickered back up.

"...I could catch you?"

Harry paused, the meaning slowly penetrating his mind.

No bars on his window this year.

If he wanted to, he could just... disobey. Just... climb out the window and sneak off with Emmett.

He could have fun, make some _good_ memories in this godforsaken place.

He smiled.

_Massacre_

Emmett almost got them caught, twice.

The big guy seemed to get a kick out of the deception, snickering and humming some tune Harry vaguely recognised as he - true to his word - caught Harry's weight and then boosted him over the fence into number 2's back garden.

Harry caught Petunia turning towards the sound just as Harry was straddling the fence, causing him to choke and fling himself onto the grass on the other side, which in turn made Emmett crack up. Emmett's laughter then brought the household of number 2 to the back door, prompting a hell-for-leather _sprint_ from both boys as they scrambled to get over the second fence to the street before they were spotted.

It wasn't until they were a block away that Harry realised _he_ was laughing too, even as he fervently hoped Petunia hadn't spotted either of them.

"So!" Emmett crowed victoriously. "Where to, Blackie?"

"You're asking _me_?" Harry retorted, before reflecting that, okay, he _was_ a native. Surely he could think of _something_ to do.

...He _really_ wanted to take Emmett to Diagon Alley, to share that place with his Muggle friend. Emmett would blow a fuse. Stupid secrecy laws.

"I guess... we could hit a museum..?" He suggested, trying to think of 'attractions' and coming up blank. He knew Big Ben was supposedly a tourist thing but really, it was just a big clock.

"Nah." Emmett waved it off. "That's more Rosie's thing. Jasper too, but.." Something flickered in the big guy's eyes, before an easy smile replaced it. "You should save that for the next time Rosie abducts you."

Harry coughed, feeling a little embarrassed. Wasn't it bad form to discuss platonic dates with a bloke's girlfriend, _with_ said bloke?

Emmett seemed oblivious and rambled on a bit about the chore of loving complicated women and sacrifices and how he appreciated Harry throwing himself on the cultural grenade.

"You don't mind?" Harry asked, aware of how timid he sounded. Emmett went perfectly still for a second, then snorted.

"Mind?! Blackie, if I'd had to take Rosie to that theatre thing? The rest of the night would have been spent arguing or suffering the 'Not Talking To You' silence. Thanks to you, I got to play GTA at home and then relax with a Rosie who was happy to just cuddle and chat about you and it. There was _zero_ friction. I would _pay you_ to take her out again."

Harry ducked his head to hide a blush and cleared his throat.

"...I am _so_ telling Rosalie you said that." He joked, skittering away from Emmett's exaggerated 'outraged' attack with a laugh.

The two boys fooled around a bit before deciding to head into London proper. Before entering the subway station, Emmet tugged at Harry's sleeve with a sheepish grin.

"I've got kind of this _thing_ about cramped spaces." He said quickly. "So, uh, don't mind me if I don't talk until we're back outside again. I'll just trail after you, okay?"

Harry blinked, but quickly nodded. As the two walked down the steps he reconsidered their destination. London was almost two hours away by train... maybe they should head into Guildford instead? It wasn't exactly tourist capital of the world, but Emmett seemed capable of having a good time knee-deep in mud.

It was probably the right call to make. The train wasn't overly full, but Emmett spent the entire time with his gaze riveted to the floor, hands closed tightly over his knees, so still he almost seemed to not be breathing.

Harry tried not to hover but kept a careful eye on his friend regardless. Emmett didn't display any other signs of stress though. Once the train arrived at their destination, he stood calmly and slouched out into the open, Harry following on his heels. The shorter boy noticed his friend taking tiny, cautious breaths before straightening and smiling at him.

"My Dad works here." Emmett announced, sounding slightly surprised and looking around as though said parent would suddenly show up.

"What does he do?" Harry asked as the two of them meandered away from the train station, following the flow of people into the town centre.

"He's a doctor." Emmett replied, pride touching his voice. "Medical and Surgical, but he prefers Medical."

"Cool." Harry agreed. The only healer he actually knew was Madam Pomfrey, and she inspired a mixture of fondness and aggravation. He'd grown up Muggle, though, and wasn't immune to the glamour of 'real' doctors.

Emmett opened his mouth to say something else but instead shot an incredulous look over Harry's shoulder. Harry turned just in time to see a slim figure step back behind a tree, though not before he recognised the angular face under a black felt fedora.

It was the other Cullen. The one who had been staring at him in the rain yesterday.

"_Idiot._" Harry heard - barely - Emmett mutter behind him, before the teen raised the volume.

"Hey! Get over here, come meet Harry!"

The skinnier Cullen, decked out from head to toe in a fitted black trench coat and pants with expensive-looking leather shoes, looked like he'd stepped out of a mobster movie. One of the old black and white ones, where it rained all the time.

In muggy, heavy summer heat, he looked incredibly out of place. He'd almost look like a Wizard trying to blend in with Muggles, if it weren't for the lack of eye-gouging colour or mismatching apparel.

Then again, Emmett never went anywhere without some form of hooded jacket and Rosalie dressed like it was early winter. Maybe the whole Cullen family just felt the cold more.

Mobster-Cullen hesitated, glancing from his brother to stare intently at Harry. The slightest of dark looks touched his face before he shook his head slightly and strode briskly away.

Harry glanced hesitantly from Edward's retreating back to Emmett's displeased expression.

"Sorry about him." Emmett apologised without looking away from his brother. "He's socially retarded."

Something make him smirk slightly, before he returned his attention to Harry.

"Hey, let's go drop by the hospital! I bet my Dad would like to meetchya."

Harry blinked, a little unsure about what was going on. Had he pissed off the broody Cullen without meaning to? Did Edward not approve of his family hanging out with him?

Or maybe, Edward actually _believed_ some of the rot floating around Privet Drive about him. That would explain all the unfriendly looks. He was probably trying to catch Harry doing something illegal, or waiting to protect his family from the 'incurably criminal' Harry Potter.

Judgemental jerk.

"Yeah, okay." He agreed, not really paying attention. "I've never been inside a hospital before."

He followed Emmett's lead through the scant crowd and tried to dismiss any further thought of the unfriendly Cullen. It was difficult. The idea of being hated or distrusted for something he hadn't done was nothing new to Harry. He'd grown up suffering the repercussions of other people's lies and Hogwarts had been much the same, if buffered by his circle of friends for the most part.

But it _stung_. Now, especially. He _liked_ Emmett. He _liked_ Rosalie. And, they seemed to like _him_.

He didn't want that spoiled, especially not by some stupid, good-looking jerk.

_Massacre_

The hospital was kind of awesome, in a scary sort of way. It was absolutely massive for a start, so much so that he and Emmett actually got lost trying to find the department he remembered his dad working in. The air was strange as well, sometimes thin and sterile, sometimes smelling of chemicals and other times practically saturated with the sense of sick people. Often they'd had to plaster themselves to the wall as a bed was rolled by, some poor person glumly watching the ceiling as they were carted from place to place. Sometimes Emmett's problem with enclosed spaces would crop up and he'd visibly hold his breath, looking pained. Those times Harry tried to find them a courtyard or an exit as quickly as possible, so Emmett could take a few deep breaths.

By the time they found a ward where one of the attending nurses-slash-receptionists didn't stare at them blankly when asked about 'Doctor Cullen', it was only to discover that there'd been an emergency and he'd been called in to surgery.

"Sorry." Emmett apologised sheepishly, one hand rubbing back through his hair. "I didn't really plan this well."

Harry shook his head and smiled.

"No, it's my fault, I'm supposed to be showing _you_ around after all. And this has been cool - seeing the inside of a hospital. Especially those bits I don't think we were supposed to go."

Emmett grinned but then something seemed to occur to him.  
"Wait, I thought you were sick? Terminal?"

Caught in his own half-lie, Harry flushed. Emmett's gaze flickered down, before he turned bodily away - shoulders tense. Panicking over possibly losing his - and by extension, Rosalie's - friendship, Harry had to make a snap decision.

"It's… not treatable." He improvised, almost immediately cursing himself for not being honest. Perpetuating a misunderstanding until it turned into an outright _lie_ never worked out well. "I was diagnosed and… my family didn't… really see a point in following up with it. In a hospital, I mean."

He felt ashamed with every word he spoke. But, even with the knowledge that a 'true friend' wouldn't just be hanging around only because they thought he was dying… well. Even if they weren't 'true friends', they were still _friends_, however temporarily. He'd just begun to enjoy himself at Privet Drive for the first time in his life. He didn't want to lose that. No matter what.

It was several seconds before Emmett turned back, his eyes still averted.

"Nah man, sorry. I shouldn't have said anything." The big guy said carefully. Harry just nodded, miserably certain the older teen knew he was lying. They were silent for a little while longer before Harry's stomach took the opportunity to grumble loudly about missing breakfast.

Emmett grinned a little and turned.

"C'mon. I think I remember the way to the cafeteria. My treat. Least I can do after kidnapping you 'n all." He strode off and, shakily, Harry followed him. He barely dared to hope that Emmett was, if nothing else, choosing to believe him. By the time they reached the large cafeteria though, his new friend seemed completely back to normal and it wasn't long before Harry slipped back into the give-and-take of joshing and joking.

It was a good day.

_Massacre_

Evening was a little less good.

It had been late afternoon by the time the two of them had made it back to Privet drive. A round of mini-golf and more loitering than Harry had ever done in his life had ended as abruptly as Emmett's usual visits did, and in the same manner. A phone call had him practically jogging to get home, Harry following in his wake. At least he'd offered to boost Harry up into his room before going back to number 11, an activity that was eventually successful despite multiple slips and wavering as their combined height was just short of the window and the both of them couldn't stop snickering at every near-miss. Eventually Emmett sort of heaved - he really was pretty incredibly strong - and managed to shove Harry up enough for him to get an elbow in. By the time he'd ungracefully scrambled his way inside, his friend had already slunk off with only hissed goodbye.

Harry righted his desk chair - proof that someone had been in his room since he'd left, which mean he'd be in trouble again later - and sat down to stare at the small list of summer work he'd stuck to the wall during his first day back. In a pretty good mood and not wanting to spoil it by revealing his presence to his family, he stared at the list and thought about doing something on it. He didn't feel like potions, which left DADA, Herbology and History reports to do instead. 

He blew his breath out through his lips and figured he'd go for his best subject. Who knew, it might even be interesting!

Stepping carefully so the floorboards didn't creak, he crossed to his trunk and withdrew both his book and the form letter detailing all the requirements of his assignment. He ran an eye over them, then dug out his CMoC and History books as well. Because he was somewhat limited in his resources - unless he wanted to catch the train into London and hit up Diagon Alley's bookshop - he needed to pick a topic which wasn't too obscure and which his current textbooks had enough information on to fulfil a 3-foot assignment. That meant just doing a spell was out - they were rarely reported on much beyond who the creator was. An event was probably a good idea and a Goblin rebellion was his first idea - he had five textbooks with massive sections on the various rebellions _and_ the species were also in his Monster Book of Monsters text - but he was also sick to _death_ of hearing about them and doubted there could possibly be a more boring topic.

Something on one of the Werewolf insurrections was another potentially easy subject. Again, there was a fair amount written about them in both his history _and_ his CoMC books and it would be easy to tie DADA into the report, but...

But he _knew_ a werewolf. He couldn't be the wizard who wrote blithely about transfiguring iron to silver in order to _kill _one.

Unfortunately, he couldn't really think of many other options. Cornish pixies? No. Acromantulas? Maybe, except how would spellwork beyond _Arania Exumai_ work into it? Maybe Sphinxes? But they weren't covered in his history books. It needed to be something covered by all three disciples. Dangerous enough to need multiple spells or strategies against it, close enough to humans to be in their history books, but not _actually_ human and thus opening up all sorts of issues with what spells could _legally_ be used, etc. And, it had to be something his current textbooks just happened to include.

Sighing, he fetched his Monster Book of Monsters and stroked it into compliance. Flicking through the pages (gently, nothing made the book bite harder than rough handling) he browsed.

"Hmmm.." He hummed, pages blurring as he dismissed creature after creature, already getting bored and discouraged.

"Z." He decided, flicking all the way to the back.

"Zigzag Zebras." He read aloud, trying to focus. "The carnivorous cousin of the mundane Zebra. Primarily located in Africa. Will actively attack anything slower than them, including humans. Wizards are advised to evacuate the area immediately as Zigzag Zebras are capable of rapid movement and short-range apparition. If unable to evacuate, a simple stunning or blasting curse should be sufficient to fell them."

Well, that wasn't an option. He couldn't even use 'transfigure a cage' because the creatures were capable of apparating and the anti-disapparition/apparition jinx wasn't taught until seventh year, _if_ you were one of the honour students. He turned the pages back, dismissing Yaks (the artificially created magical breed which was now a growing pest in rural Russia), Xylofauxs (a small wooden fae species that imitated xylophones for mating purposes) and Wraiths, before stopping on an entry that seemed ridiculously obvious in hindsight.

"Vampires..." He mused, running an eye over the section. It looked promising, taking up an entire three pages instead of just the usual blurb. He also vaguely recalled there being question on Vampires in the OWL exam, which he hadn't been able to answer since Binns only ever talked about Goblins and he hadn't bothered to read any other parts of his history books.

Somewhat energised by having found a suitable subject, Harry dug out an old unused exercise book of Dudley's and began making a bullet-point list of information.

First he made headings, in the order in which he'd write the essay. Location, recognisable attributes, applicable laws, ways to deal with: transfiguration, ways to deal with: charms. Once this was done, the assignment would be half over! Temporarily cheered, he got stuck into it.

_Massacre_

"It is confirmed, my Lord."

Voldemort didn't deign to look at the slave giving the report. His blood-filled eyes stared into the abyss, calculating and recalculating, trying to predict and plan for his true enemy's tactics.

Harry Potter needed to die, that was obvious. Prophecy, custom and status demanded it.

But it was not Harry Potter who pulled the strings of a hundred chess pieces, who could match him in strength and skill on the battlefield and currently outmatched him in the political field.

No, Harry Potter was a dangerous piece, capable of unexpected movement - but in the end, just a knight. His true enemy was the one who _moved_ Harry Potter, who used him as shamelessly as Voldemort used his own minions.

"And Dumbledore does not suspect?"

"No, my Lord."

"Very well. Proceed with the first assault."

_**Massacre**_

Short and sweet, because nothing gets me writing like procrastinating something important. :) I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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